Author's Note: This chapter contains mention of sexual content, past sexual assault, past domestic violence, self-injury, and other mental health issues that may be triggering to some readers.

"Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of duty." -Stephen King

74 days sober

We walk into rehearsal with my arm slung around Travis’ shoulders and one of his hands tucked into my back pocket. That in itself isn’t enough to draw much attention to us, because I’ve been hanging off him for weeks now, so I think people are used to it. The reaction comes a minute or so later, when we pause at the edge of the group gathered in the first few rows of seats, and Travis says, “I’m going to go find Ms. Markland and tell her about the booth.” I shoot him a cocky little you mean you’re going to tell her how you sucked my dick on it? smile. He flushes and smacks my chest. “Not that. God, shut up. I’ll see you later.” Possibly without thinking, and probably still riding an early-morning sex high, he curves a hand over the back of my neck and draws me into a lingering kiss. His lips curve into a smile against mine, and when he tries to pull away, I make a noise of disapproval and tug him back in. He laughs, gives me one last peck, and repeats, “Later.” This time, it sounds like a promise. He ducks out from under my arm and heads for the stage, hoisting himself up onto it and shooting me one last bright-eyed glance before he disappears into the wings. There is a two-second pause, and then something crashes into my side. I shoot a bewildered glance down at Annabelle, who has flung her arms around me in the tightest, most unreasonably excited hug I’ve ever experienced. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” “What the shit, Annabelle?” I say. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to hug back, or what. I’m not even sure why I’m getting hugged. “You and Travis,” she squeaks. “When did that happen? What happened? Tell me everything, I thought you guys weren’t even talking to each other, and now you’re kissing, oh my god.” I squint at her. “You’re one of those horrible straight girls who has always wanted a gay best friend, aren’t you?” She glares at me, which is probably more of a confirmation than she intends for it to be. I’m tempted to tell her that it’s none of her business, but… it might be kind of nice to talk about this with someone who hasn’t also slept with me, or Travis, or both of us, which knocks out almost all of my friends. Still, I have the presence of mind to lower my voice a little as I say, “We’re not, you know, back together, or whatever. We just… worked out some issues.” “Through sex?” she prompts. “Through talking,” I protest. There’s a beat, and then I add, “And then totally through sex, it was awesome. I can’t even talk about it without giggling like a schoolgirl or getting an erection or both, so maybe we should move on to a new topic of discussion.” She grins, but raises her hands in surrender and allows me to lead her back to the group. No one else makes a comment about what has just transpired, which I’m thankful for, because I’m really not in the mood to have Joss’ bitching harsh the buzz I feel from actually getting Travis… not back. Not really. But it’s close. The dress rehearsal itself goes very well. There are a few missed lines, a few fumbled props, and one instance of me chuckling like a five-year-old at one of the racier innuendos, but for the most part, we keep our shit on lock. You’d never know it, though, based on the way Ms. Markland spends the whole performance glowering at us from the front row. Once we’ve finished our second straight run-through of the play, sometime before noon, she calls Riley and Travis to the front row and says, “Riley, do you have any comments regarding the sound equipment?” “Yeah,” he grunts. “Guys, you don’t have to project that much if you’re wearing a mic. Like, that’s the point of a microphone. You don’t need to yell. All it does is make the speakers scream.” Ms. Markland nods once, then says, “Travis, any comments on behalf of crew?” “The second the curtain closes, anyone who’s onstage needs to get off-stage. We can’t make our set changes if you guys are in the way, and it makes us look like morons if we spend any longer than fifteen seconds with the curtains closed. So, I know it’s difficult to move quickly with the stage lights out, but you really need to do your best to get out of the way and not touch the set pieces. Or the props. Or the crew members.” Travis pauses and shoots a glare in my direction. I duck my head to hide my grin. He continues, “Also, if you’re holding something when you get off stage, hand it to one of the crew members. There’s a very specific system to how the props are organized backstage, and it throws us all off when people mess it up.” “It only throws you off, Travis,” one of the freshmen calls from upstage. “The rest of us are fine with it. You’re the only one who’s really anal about it.” I open my mouth to respond, because hello, if the kid’s gonna just drop it in my lap like that, of course I’m going to make a comment. But Travis just points a finger directly at me and orders, “You shut your mouth right now, I swear to god. Don’t say anything.” “Oh, come on, just one joke?” I say. “No. Stop talking.” “Half a joke?” I wheedle. “You can’t expect me to keep silent when somebody sets me up for an ‘anal’ joke like that.” “Stop talking,” he repeats, more loudly and with a flush in his cheeks. “It won’t even be that explicit, I swear!” “Is there a non-explicit type of anal sex joke?” Annabelle wonders aloud. But Ms. Markland has clearly reached her breaking point, because she snaps, “Garen, if you’re done playing some comedy version of ‘just the tip’ with your boyfriend, I have a play to direct.” I lose it. Seriously. Well, half the cast does, but I’m completely useless for about five minutes, just curled up on the stage floor, laughing so hard I’m genuinely worried I might piss myself. Travis just turns bright red and disappears back stage to pretend that he’s someone else. Ms. Markland’s comment has the opposite effect of what she intended, because by the time she finally regains control of us, the pizzas she ordered for lunch have arrived. As I’m joining the fray to get my own slice, Marcellina, one of the stage crew girls, comes up to me and says in a sing-song tone, “Garen. Travis is refusing to come have lunch with us. He says he doesn’t have time, because he needs to make sure the programming on the jukebox mech is just right. Can you drag him out here?” I slap a slice of pizza down onto one of the paper plates and say, “I don’t know why you guys seem to think I’m the Travis whisperer. My influence over that kid doesn’t really extend much further than the perimeter of my bedroom.” Riley snorts at me, and I smirk back. “Anyway, I’ll just bring him some food and hang out back there while he works. You guys should come, too, if you want.” None of them immediately follow me, but I assume some of them will, once they’ve all gathered up their pizza and drinks. Sure enough, I find Travis hard at work in the the classroom that stage crew operates out of; he’s sitting at the teacher’s desk and tinkering with some weird little machine about the size of a dinner plate. I set the pizza down next to him, careful to avoid knocking the greasy plate against anything important, and move to stand behind him, ducking down to loop an arm around him and kiss the back of his neck. “Alright, somebody better tell me what a jukebox mech is, and why you keep working on it,” I say. “Because I’ve heard it mentioned like, fourteen times, and I’ve still got no idea what it is.” He shoots me a half-smile over his shoulder; I catch it with my lips. When I eventually release him—which, admittedly, takes a while—he says, “This. I built a rotating mechanism for the inside of the jukebox. It’s programmed to bring a record in line with the window every minute, so it looks like the juke is flipping vinyl.” I blink down at the mess of wires and buttons and bullshit. “And it works?” He nods. “You know how to do shit like that? Just—build things that can perform like that?” He shrugs. “Not really? I mean, I didn’t. We didn’t have the budget to buy an actual jukebox, so I got this idea to make one, and made up a little sketch of how I thought it could work. And then I did some research, realized I had no idea what I was doing, and just read until I taught myself the right way to do it.” “Taught yourself the right way to build a tiny robot,” I clarify. He shrugs again, and I can’t stop myself from saying, “That’s amazing, T. How did you—that’s amazing.” “You said that already,” he says, ducking his head to hide his reddening face. “Anyway, once I had the information and parts I needed, it wasn’t hard to build the mech, because I was mostly working off tutorials I found online. The hardest part was learning how to solder.” He points to a bit of the mech that has clearly been soldered together. I raise a finger and let it hover over part of the machine. “What happens if I touch this part?” “I punch you in the face for breaking my mechanism, mostly? Or you get electrocuted, I’m not entirely sure,” he says, grabbing my wrist and guiding it over until my finger is above something that is much more button-like than the part I’d been indicating. “This is the part that triggers it. Hang on, let me hold it up so it doesn’t break.” He slips his hands beneath the machine and gingerly raises it about six inches off the desk. I poke the button. There’s a tiny beep, and then an arm at the back of the mech slowly extends and begins to rotate in a counter-clockwise direction. Every time it reaches the twelve o’clock position, it pauses, turns in place, and continues winding around. Travis shrugs. “You put the record in the little claw at the end of the arm before it starts. When it’s pointing straight up, it turns, like it’s being flipped. It’s only visible through the window for about twenty seconds, then it’s out of sight for another forty-five until it makes the rest of the rotation. Press that same button, please?” I poke the button again, and the arm stops moving. Travis sets it back on the desk and wipes his hands off on his jeans, shrugging. I can’t stop staring at the little robot. “Dude. Can you—you’re a fucking genius.” He makes a face. “Caltech didn’t think so.” When I raise an eyebrow in question, he admits, “I’m still getting my college acceptances. Or, rejections, in the case of California Tech. It makes sense, I guess—like, my grades are awesome, sure, but I don’t really have any relevant extracurriculars. If I’d started doing stuff like this freshman year, maybe I could’ve gotten in, but it’s not surprising that they’d reject somebody whose sole focus for the past few years has been a varsity sport and a job at a coffee shop.” “They’re idiots,” I say immediately. “The people at Caltech are complete morons if they don’t want you. You’re brilliant.” He lets slip a tiny, self-satisfied smile and says, “Columbia and Princeton agree with you.” “Congratulations,” I say. “Columbia, shit. That would be so weird—you and Jamie at the same school?” “I know. But I texted him the other day, when I got my letter, to ask how he likes it. He tells me it’s amazing, offered to show me around any time I feel like coming up to New York for the day.” He pauses, then adds, like I’ve had anything to do with this, “James is actually a really good guy.” “I know,” I say, and maybe that’s why he acts like it’s my doing. I have a tendency to act like a proud parent any time someone recognizes the awesomeness of Jamie Goldwyn. “So now you’re just waiting for hear from—” “Dartmouth, MIT, Yale, and Stanford,” he supplies. “I think MIT will probably reject me, too. I mean, if Caltech did, they will, right? But I’ve got a good feeling about Yale. I mean, Ben got in with no problem, and my GPA’s about the same as his was. And he didn’t do any extracurriculars, like, at all. No sports or clubs, just the job at his dad’s bookstore. So, I dunno. I think I’ll probably get in there.” I kiss him again, because I don’t know what to say. I’m proud of him, of course—proud, excited, everything-good-I-should-be-feeling, but there’s a tightness in my stomach that I’m trying to ignore. The truth is, he’s too good for me. He’s so much smarter than I am, and so much more ambitious, and going so many amazing places, and not a single one of those places is here, with me. A year from now, he’ll be off at one of the best schools in the country, making something out of his life, and I’ll be… where? Still here? It’s not like any of my college applications have actually been processed, because I didn’t apply early-admission anywhere. I don’t know if I’ll get into any of the schools I’ve applied to, and even if I do, I don’t know what I’m going to do there. There’s nothing I’m sure of anymore, especially what I have with Travis, which is still so new and raw. There’s nothing that someone like me could have to offer someone like him, other than physicality; I sling a leg over his and settle down in his lap, facing him and drawing him into a kiss. He lets out a contented little sigh against my lips, like this is what he’s been waiting for, and slips his hands beneath the hem of my shirt, flattening his palms against the small of my back. That sends a short stab of relief through me. Even if I don’t get to keep him, at least he wants me enough to respond to me now. I can nip his bottom lip with my teeth and make him sigh; I can knot my hands in the short hair at the back of his head and make him shiver. His hands leave my back in favor of scrambling across the surface of the desk and push the jukebox mechanism to the side so that he can shove me flat onto my back. I drag him down on top of me, spreading my legs so that he can slot his hips between my thighs, and reach immediately for his ass. He breaks away from the kiss, laughing, and smacks my hand away. “Are you completely incapable of behaving yourself for even five minutes at a time? Jesus.” “This coming from the guy who just threw me down on a teacher’s desk like we’re in porn?” I say. He’s grinning, but still trying to keep me from groping him, so I drag his hands around front and shove them under the hem of my shirt, because nothing in the world distracts him the way my abs do. It works—it takes fifteen seconds before my shirt is rucked up under my arms, and another ten before I manage to get both my hands stuffed down the back of his jeans. “You’re still not behaving,” he says. His protests must not be serious, because they don’t stop him from grinding his crotch against mine, or mouthing across my jawline. They also don’t stop me from moving my hands around to his front, popping the button on his jeans and grasping his half-hard cock with the other. He makes a faint noise of approval, and I murmur, “Let me fuck you.” “We’re at school, G,” he says. “So? I’ve totally fucked Ben here befo—ow, ow, okay, stop that,” I whine, trying to wriggle away from where he has sunk his teeth into my shoulder through my t-shirt. When he releases me, I go right back to my propositions. “Nobody in the room but us, babe, everybody’s out there eating. We could do it right here, on this desk.” I lick a stripe up the side of his neck and whisper into his ear, “You could ride my dick. You’d look so hot doing that, just like you did this morning, in my bed. Want to?” He shudders. “You’re—fuck, you’re incredibly convincing when you let your voice do that low, growly thing, you know that? But you must be trying to break me. We fucked twice this morning already, and my ass can really only handle so much.”You can fuck me instead, I almost offer, then go rigid. The thought has passed through my head completely without my permission, and now that it’s there, bouncing around my skull, I’ve got no idea what to do with it. Because I don’t like that, I know I don’t—I didn’t really like it with Alex, and I absolutely hated it with Seth, and I said no with Dave, but… Travis is a switch. So, isn’t it a dick move to refuse to let him do something I know he likes to do? Relationships are supposed to involve compromise, and he’s been really upfront about this not being a relationship, but maybe it could be, if I was willing to do that. Maybe if I showed him that I’m putting everything I’ve got into this, maybe if he knew I was willing to give up the control I know I need, he’d want to take a chance on me again. Maybe this is what I need to do to get him back. “I, um,” is all I manage at first. I clear my throat. “Alex.” He pulls his head back and frowns down at me, slips a hand from under my shirt to point at himself as he says, “Not Alex. Travis. I know things get a little convoluted in our group of friends, but—” “No. God, shut up, that’s not what I—” I take a too-deep breath, even though it makes me feel like my lungs are going to burst. “Alex is the uh, the last guy who fucked me. And it’s—bottoming’s not really my thing, it’s not what I’m into, but if you wanted me to, I… could. You know. For you.” Wow, G, way to blow him away with your enthusiasm. Still, I kind of expect him to jump at the offer, like everyone else has, but his forehead is creased, and his voice is slow and quiet as he says, “Why?” I blink at him, and after a moment, he clarifies, “Why would you offer to do something we both know you don’t want to do?” “Because it’s something you want to do, isn’t it? I mean, you liked fucking Ben. And you liked fucking Joss, even if it’s not really the same thing. So, maybe you’d um, you’d like fucking me, too. And you could. I-I’d let you,” I say. I’d do anything for you. He hasn’t responded, except to raise his eyebrows, and I’m opening my mouth to try again, but then the classroom door swings open. It’s only open for about two seconds before it’s being hastily pulled shut again, right around Riley’s words, “Oops. That’s incredibly awkward.” Travis slides off of me and right back into his chair, curving his hands under my knees and tugging until I sigh and hop off the desk. When I circle around the desk to flop down into one of the empty desk chairs, he shadows me and sits down on top of the desk. “We’ll talk about this later, alright?” “I’d really rather we didn’t,” I admit, and he flicks my shoulder in warning. “Are you guys, like… clothed now?” Riley calls through the door. “We were clothed the first time you opened the door, asshole,” Travis calls back, fixing the button on his jeans even as he speaks. “But, yeah, we’re—you can come in.” The door bangs back open, and a flood of people enters; first Riley, Annabelle, John, Christine, then Miranda and Nate, and finally, Joss. The moment his ex-girlfriend sets foot in the classroom, Travis goes stiff against my side. This is what really kills me—no matter how content he seems in the rare moments when I get him alone, he is always taut with barely controlled fury whenever he is forced to be in the same room as Joss, like he’s trying impossibly hard to stop himself from remembering the abortion she had. “So,” Christine says, drawing out the word for a few seconds and then smiling slyly at me, “Garen and Travis. Again. This is new.” “It is,” Travis agrees. I snort. “Depends on your definition of ‘new,’ I suppose.” Miranda clears her throat, casts a nervous glance at her best friend, and says, “Can we talk about something else, please?” Joss shrugs and offers up a placid smile. “Don’t worry about it, Miri, I’m fine. I think they’re well-suited for each other, honestly.” No. I don’t know what’s going on, but no, this is wrong. This is the calm before the storm, and I can tell that Travis doesn’t realize he should be battening down the hatches. His arm is still curled loosely, lazily around my shoulders, and he shoots me a bewildered glance when I dig my fingertips into his knee in warning. And then Joss’ sweet smile is twisting around the words, “They’ll be even better-suited once they both go off the deep end. It’ll be a party—Garen can go back to doing cocaine, and Travis can go back to slashing his own arms open with razor blades.” Travis goes rigid against my side; I grip his leg tighter in an attempt to keep him still. He needs to stay motionless and silent, because he’s a totally shit liar, but I’m not, and I think maybe I can salvage this. I sneer at Joss and say, “You’re completely delusional, you know that? Trav doesn’t—” “—doesn’t what? Need to ‘go back to it,’ considering he never stopped?” Joss cuts across me. Before I can get another word out, she seizes his wrist and yanks his shirt sleeve up to his elbow, exposing the neat column of slashes into his skin. I hadn’t even noticed them last night or this morning, too used to seeing marks on him—honestly, too used to the much more traumatizing mess of jagged, criss-crossed cuts that cover both of Ben’s arms in their entirety. Thank god Travis’ aren’t that brutal to look at, because the stunned expressions on our friends’ faces are bad enough as it is. Travis twists his arm out of her grasp and pins it to his stomach, like hiding the cuts against the folds of his shirt will make them unseen. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he spits out, and I know now that there’s no way he can play this off. He looks too terrified to lie. “Seriously, don’t ever put your hands on me again, you—” “Travis,” says a cool voice from the doorway. I jolt and twist around in my seat; Ms. Markland is staring in at us. Or, I guess, she’s mostly staring at Travis’ forearm, still nestled against his stomach. She clears her throat. “May I speak to you out in the hall for a moment?” He shakes his head violently from side to side, retracting his arm from around my shoulders so that he can drag his sleeve back down. “No. I, um. No. I have to go.” Our teacher repeats his name a few more times, urgency increasing as he gathers up his papers and shoves them into his backpack. He tries to stand, and I must make some sort of panicked, protesting sound, because he presses a rough kiss to my cheek and mutters, “Please don’t follow me. I’ll call you later.” And then he’s gone, Ms. Markland trailing after him. Despite his words, all I want to do is bolt after him. Instead, I turn to Joss, whose eyes are wide and almost… what, apologetic? She blinks at me, then says quietly, “I didn’t realize she was standing there.” “Bullshit,” I say flatly. “Even if you didn’t realize she was standing there, you should’ve—god, why the fuck would you do that to him? What is wrong with you? I swear to—” “Garen, calm down,” Miranda orders. My eyes snap to her face, and I realize that she’s actually staring at my hands; they’re trembling against the desk, balled up into fists. I force them flat, because Jesus, I’m not going to hit her, no matter how much I might hate her right now. And it’s completely fucked up—I know this is wrong, I know I’m about to cross a line, I know I shouldn’t be saying this, even as the words are coming out of my mouth, but I just can’t stop myself from staring Joss dead in the eyes and saying, “You are so lucky you’re a female, you know that? Because that is honestly the only thing that is keeping me from going completely apeshit on you. If Travis had stuck to our team, if you were a guy, I would break your goddamn face for what you’ve done to him.” “Dude,” Riley says sharply, but I don’t even blink. Neither does Joss. She just cocks her head to the side and says, “I guess I should be thankful you’ve got such a strong moral stance against hitting women. Tell me, Garen. Did you always feel that way, or is it some sort of residual trauma you’ve got from dating that guy who used to beat you like you were a little girl?” It’s like she has punched me in the chest hard enough to force all of the air out of my lungs. Worse, it’s like Dave himself has punched me again—just as startling and awful and painful as that, at least. I’m sitting here, stone still, running through the list of all the ways she could have found out. The most obvious answer would be Travis telling her, but I know that’s not it; he’d never be stupid or cruel enough to tell that to anyone, especially someone who hates me. The second most obvious answer is that she overheard me discussing it with Officer Lowitz the night she and Gabe vandalized my car—I know he had used the words “domestic assault,” and I know I mentioned the restraining order, but I also know that we were both speaking too quietly for the surrounding people to hear any of the good parts, and I know that she was sitting in Travis’ car for that, anyway. There’s a chance that the town grapevine picked up the details of who assaulted me and why, not just that it happened, but I don’t think that’s the case. No. There’s really only one possibility left. I turn to stare at Nate; he looks horrified. I have to swallow hard before my throat will even open enough to let me say simply, “Seriously, dude?” “I-I didn’t… I just, I was trying to help,” Nate stammers, like that makes any fucking sense. But this is getting so much worse by the minute, because there’s an uncomfortable shifting that’s spreading over the rest of the group, like they’re only just now beginning to realize that Joss isn’t just shooting her mouth off; she’s actually revealing my horrible, painful secret, just like she did to Travis. It’s Riley who finally says, “Wait—is this for real? Like, you guys aren’t just making the worst joke ever?” “Don’t,” is all I can say. Don’t, like there’s any chance in hell that people will actually stop talking about this just because I say no. Like my saying no ever fucking matters. And this is stupid, this is humiliating. I should be backpedaling right now, before they get a chance to realize how goddamn weak I am. How can I expect any of them to take me seriously after this? What kind of full-grown man lets himself get beaten and abused and turned into nothing? And then, like she’s burrowing right into my head, Joss leans forward and says, “I always knew you were overcompensating for something, with that little red car of yours, and that ridiculous haircut, and the way you swagger around like you think you’re James fucking Dean. Based on the way my ex is so willing to bend over for you, you can’t be trying to make up for a small dick, so… I guess you’re just trying to prove your manhood figuratively, not literally. What happened, G? Did you mouth off to the wrong person and finally get punched out, just like you’ve always deserved?” “No, what happened,” I say, launching myself out of my seat so that I can hiss right in her face, “is that I was a fifteen-year-old kid who spent four months during my sophomore year of high school getting the shit beaten out of me by my eighteen-year-old boyfriend. I ended up in the hospital and almost died twice because he ‘couldn’t handle how mad I made him.’ I got this scar—” I point to the line that runs alongside my nose, “—and these—” I yank the v-neck of my shirt aside to expose some of the worse scrapes that never really faded from my shoulders, “—and these—” I hold up the hand that will never look quite right again, “—because that’s what happens when a guy in combat boots decides to take out his aggression on the tenth-grader he’s dating.” I become aware of a hand on my back. I think it’s Annabelle, but it might be Christine. It’s that reassuring bit of contact that finally--finally gives me the courage to say, words tumbling out all in a rush after three years of keeping them stuck inside my head, “And you want to know something else, Joss? Know how you’re so fond of calling me a cheap whore, or a dirty little slut, or a piece of trash? He used to like calling me those things, too. The only difference is that he liked to say them while he was holding me down and fucking me, while I fought and cried and begged him to stop. Is that what you were hoping to hear? Is that a solid enough ‘origin story’ for the villain role you’ve cast me in? Are you happy now?” My words are met with a resounding, painful silence. I can feel everyone staring at me, probably slack-jawed with horror or disgust, but I don’t dare move my eyes away from Joss’ face. Even she looks like she’s on the verge of freaking out; her mouth is hanging slightly open, and her eyes look borderline panicked, and I can tell that this is something she never thought she’d hear from me. For a split second, I really believe she regrets saying anything. And then I realize I don’t give a shit anymore. “I’m done,” I say, straightening up and stepping away from Joss’ desk. “You win, alright? You wanted me out of your life, your club, your—whatever. You got your wish, I’m fucking done. Good luck with your play, and I really hope there’s somebody else in the cast who can pick up my part, because I quit.” I snatch my leather jacket off the desk I left it on and stride out of the room, not bothering to hunt down the script I don’t need anymore. I don’t care that opening night is less than a week away. I don’t care that I’m dropping out on one of the lead roles and leaving them in a lurch. Right now, after what she’s just done to Travis, and what she’s made me admit about myself, I deserve a chance to be selfish. I make it all the way to my car before Nate catches up to me, his eyes brimming with tears. “Garen, please don’t go. I’m so sorry, I—” “How could you do that to me?” I demand, still aware enough to be ashamed of the way my voice cracks on the words. “How could you think it was okay to tell my worst enemy something so private and so horrible about me? I told you that in confidence, dude. I fucking trusted you, and you screwed me over.” When he speaks, his words are practically a whimper. “I was just trying to help. Joss was always telling everyone how horrible you are, but I said that you have a lot of history she doesn’t know about, a-and I thought that maybe if she knew more about you, if she knew why you are the way you are, you’d—” “Why I am the way I am?” I echo, sneering at him. “Is that your sixteen-year-old way of saying maybe she wouldn’t hate me for being such a slut if she knew that it might have something to do with me being traumatized by getting raped when I was a sophomore?” “No!” he bursts out. “God, Garen, you never even told me that part. If I’d known it was that serious, I—” “Right, of course. Because the fact that I got smacked around by my ex-boyfriend, that wasn’t serious at all. Obviously that was just gossip waiting to happen, wasn’t it?” “No, that’s not what I meant,” Nate moans. “I thought that if she knew some of what you’ve been through, she’d be able to see you as a real person, and not just her competition for Travis’ affections. I—” He breaks off, and oh Christ, he really is starting to cry. “I just like you so much, Garen, and it was killing me to see anyone look down on you when I know that you’re so brave and strong.” I all but throw myself into the driver’s seat of my car and set the engine roaring to life. “I am so honored be brave and strong enough that you feel justified in having a crush on me. Really, Nate, that totally makes the betrayal worth it.” He opens his mouth to protest again, but I snarl, “Don’t fucking speak to me, okay? I wasn’t joking, I am done with you guys.” I peel out of the parking lot before he can try to make me stay, but I only make it two blocks before I have to pull over because I am shaking too much to drive straight. Part of me considers texting Travis to tell him I’ve quit the play, but I know he’d ask me why. And I may have just told everyone else what happened to me, but I still haven’t told him. And I don’t think I can. So, instead of getting my phone out, I pull myself together, drive myself the rest of the way home, and come barreling into the house, calling out, “Dad? Are you home?” “In the study,” is the reply. When I make my way down the hall and into the room, he looks up from his paperwork and gives me a quizzical smile. “I thought you were going to to be at your dress rehearsal until late tonight.” “I quit the play,” I say. His eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. I brace myself for a lecture on commitment and responsibility, but he remains silent. I guess my expression isn’t as neutral as I’d hoped it would be. I swallow hard and say, a little too quietly, “There’s this girl who doesn’t like me—well, there are a lot of people who don’t like me, but there’s this one girl in particular… this afternoon, she told all of our friends a-about David. And how he used to beat me up. I’d only told this one other guy, but I guess he’s been telling people behind my back. But this girl, she told everybody, and she said that’s why I act and dress the way I do, because I’m trying to overcompensate for him making me feel like a bitch. And I’m not a real man. And I-I deserved what happened.” Both my parents have green eyes, too. If my mom is to be believed, that’s actually how my dad first tried to pick her up in college; by coming up to her at a party and slurring, “You have beautiful eyes. So do I. We’re obliged to procreate, let me take you to dinner tomorrow night,” because apparently my dad is lying when he pretends to have more class than either of us. I know that Mom’s eyes can cut right through someone, and I’ve had people tell me the same thing, but this is one of the first times I’ve seen it from my dad. He looks furious, and it actually makes me flinch. He picks up his cell phone in one hand and a pen in the other, holding the latter out to me. “Write down this girl’s name. And the boy who told her. I’m calling that school.” “Maybe you don’t have to,” I say. “You, um. I get to pick where I go next semester, right? That’s what you told me a few weeks ago.” He sets the phone back down. “And have you made your decision now?” “Patton,” I say, without another second of hesitation. If I don’t get it out now, I might not be able to say it later. But I need to know that he understands that I’m serious. I need to know that I mean it, so I repeat, as firmly as possible, “I choose Patton. I want to go back there after this semester.”76 days sober

I manage to take exactly two steps into my homeroom before the teacher—whose name I’ve never actually bothered to learn, because I don’t have her for any classes—crooks a finger at me and says, “Mr. Anderson, a word?” I trudge up to her desk, and she hands me a slip of blue paper. “I’ve been asked to send you up to the guidance office as soon as you get in. They’re expecting you. I’ll call up now to tell them you’re on your way.” “Don’t tell me what to do,” I say. She doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve spoken, except to press the call button on the wall behind her desk and chirp, “I’m sending Garen Anderson up, as asked. He’ll be there in one minute.” I can’t very well tell her that I’m not going, and I doubt Dad would be happy if I managed to get expelled from LHS (again) with only one month left. I trudge up to the guidance office and nudge the door open with my hip. The receptionist offers me a sad smile and says, “You can go right on in to Mrs. DiMarco’s office, dear.” “Why am I here?” I ask. She says nothing, but gestures again towards the barely-cracked door that will take me deeper into the offices. I try again. “Why are you looking at me like I’m about to find out that one of my parents is dead? Nobody’s dead. I saw my dad this morning, I talked to my mom last night. Nobody’s dead.” “Nobody’s dead,” she agrees, waving her hand even more emphatically towards the door. There’s no way I’m going to get a decent response out of her, so I stomp past her desk and kick Mrs. DiMarco’s office door the rest of the way open. I don’t go inside. I’m not sure I can, because my muscles don’t seem to be working anymore. There are five chairs in the office, two on the far side of the desk, facing me, and three on the near side, backs to me. On the far side, Ms. Markland is watching me warily, next to a woman who I’ve never met, but who I assume is Mrs. DiMarco. Nearer, Josslyn Pryce is sitting in the chair on the left; Travis is sitting in the one on the right. The empty seat between them is clearly meant for me. “What’s going on?” I ask slowly, even though I’m afraid that I already know. “Hello, Garen. Please, shut the door and have a seat,” Mrs. DiMarco says. I stumble forward a couple of steps so that I can shut the door, but this bitch is delusional if she thinks I’m going to be able to sit that close to Joss without my skin crawling. What I want to do is pick up the chair and set it down on Travis’ other side before I sit, but I know that’ll seem petty. Instead, I just sink into it, tossing my books onto the corner of the counselor’s desk and taking a sip from my coffee cup, daring any of them to comment on the technically-forbidden-during-school-hours coffee. No one does. Joss isn’t even looking at me; she’s watching the two faculty members like she thinks one of them is about to pull out a gun and execute the three of us. Something brushes my knee, and I glance down, then over. Travis’ eyes are fixed on one of Mrs. DiMarco’s paperweights, but his trembling hand is bumping up against my jeans, and I lace my fingers through his without asking why he needs the reassurance of contact. And still no one says anything about it. Instead, Mrs. DiMarco says, “Ms. Markland has asked me to call this meeting so that we can work out some of the problems that you all seem to be having. From what she has told me, the conflict between the three of you has gotten completely out of hand.” None of us deny this. “I’d like to make sure I fully understand what’s going on. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the issues you’ve had this semester started because you two—” She points to Travis and I, “—used to be a couple, but broke up, and then you two—” She points to Travis and Joss, “—became a couple, which is why there’s tension between you two—” Joss and I. She pauses, glances down at my hand, then adds, “Though, from the look of things, Mr. McCall and Mr. Anderson are a couple once again. Is that correct?” “No,” I say immediately. I don’t plan to let anyone in this room make Travis say a single world throughout the course of this meeting. “We’re not a couple; we’re just close friends. And I kind of get the feeling that you’re here to talk to us all about something a bit more important than the bullshit you could find out from reading our facebook walls.” “Fine,” Ms. Markland says, turning her eyes towards me. “Halfway through Saturday’s dress rehearsal, I found Nathan Holliday in tears backstage because he said you had quit the play and stormed out.” I take a sip of my coffee. “It’s true.” “We open in three days, Garen.” “Believe me, I would have quit earlier, if I’d known that Nate was talking about me behind my back, or that lovely Joss over here was planning to turn me into the club joke.” “You were already the club joke,” Joss whispers, “but if Nate had told me the full story, I never would have said anything. I hate you, Garen, but even you don’t deserve to have people find those things out about you.” Travis clears his throat, but his voice is still wavering as he says, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you guys are talking about.” “After you walked out of the classroom on Saturday, Joss told everyone who was still there about the fact that I used to date a guy who beat the crap out of me,” I say flatly. I pause, then roll my eyes towards Mrs. DiMarco and Ms. Markland. “And no, we really don’t need to talk about that. I’ve already discussed it at length with my therapist, my parents, and my best friends. I have a restraining order against the guy, which I’m pretty sure the school is aware of, considering part of that restraining order keeps him away from this building. I’m over it, and I’m not planning to have a heart-to-heart with anybody today, so if that’s why I’m here, I want to leave.” “That’s not the only reason you’re here,” Mrs. DiMarco says. “Some of your friends—” She ignores the way I scoff at the word, “—say they have recently learned of certain information that has made them concerned for your well-being.” I cock my head to the side, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart inside my chest, and say, “I’m fine. Whatever they’re concerned about is probably bullshit.” “Then please explain to me,” Ms. Markland says, “why at least three members of the drama club have confided in me that they fear you are currently experiencing or have recently suffered severe sexual abuse.” Severe sexual abuse. Is there a type of sexual abuse that isn’t severe? I don’t say anything. I wish the hand I’ve got tangled up with Travis’ wasn’t shaking so badly. His eyes are boring into the side of my head, but I don’t know if I’m managing a good enough poker face to make up for the fact that I still can’t seem to force out a single sound. Mrs. DiMarco opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything else, Joss interrupts in a watery but firm voice, “That’s not true.” “Josslyn,” Ms. Markland sighs. “No, I’m not trying to say I don’t believe him. I’m trying to say that that’s not what he told us,” Joss says. I look over at her. Out of the faculty members’ line of sight, she presses the sole of her shoe to the toe of my boot, a clear warning, shut the fuck up and let me fix this. The same sort of warning I tried to give Travis just before she yanked up the sleeve of his shirt in front of everyone. “After Travis left the classroom, Garen and I were arguing, and I did tell people that his ex-boyfriend used to beat him up. That’s true, and I’m sorry I said it, but that’s where the conversation ended. We argued about that, about the physical abuse, it wasn’t—he never said he was raped. I can understand how maybe some people might have misinterpreted what he said to mean that, but it’s not what he told us.” I have no idea why she’s trying to help me, protect me, keep the secrets it’s her fault I revealed in the first place. She’s probably being driven by some sort of guilt, and it’s so not my job to make her feel better about what a shitty person she is, but I remain completely still and silent, smoothing my expression into one of quiet neutrality. “And I suppose you’re all going to tell me that Travis’ self-injury is a figment of the collective imagination as well,” Ms. Markland says flatly. None of us speak. There’s nothing either Joss or I can say that will be enough to convince everyone that it’s all a misunderstanding. Travis won’t lie, not right now. My knuckles are white from how hard I’m gripping his hand, like I can force him into silence if I just hold on tightly enough. “Travis,” Mrs. DiMarco says gently, “I need you to roll up your sleeve and show me your arm.” I tighten my grip even more, just in case he tries to obey. “No. You can’t make him do that. Maybe if he were still underage, but he’s an adult. You can’t make him show you, and you can’t call his parents—” “He may be legally an adult, but he is a student whose care has been entrusted to us,” Mrs. DiMarco says steadily, “and he will roll up his sleeves now.” But Travis shakes his head and says, in little more than a whisper, “I’m not going to do that. But I’m also not going to deny that you’d find exactly what you’re afraid of finding. Yes. I do… that. I’ll admit it, but I won’t show you.” It’s a concession I guess they’re willing to make, because the conversation moves onward. “How long have you been harming yourself, Travis?” Mrs. DiMarco asks. I wonder how much she paid to get the degree that taught her how to use that condescendingly sweet tone of voice. “On and off for a few years,” Travis says. When she doesn’t reply, he amends, “Five years. On and off since I was thirteen years old.” “And have you sought professional help?” she prompts. He finally looks up. “You know I have. You’re the one who told me I was required to start seeing a therapist before I could come back to school after I overdosed during freshman year. And you’re the one who approved my temporary leave so that my mom could send me to the treatment center, even though I missed a month of classes. So, yes, I’ve gotten professional help.” “Are you still being prescribed Paxil?” she asks. “Prozac,” Travis says through gritted teeth, and I release the bone-crunching grip I’ve got on his hand so that I can brush my fingertips across his palm in what I hope is a more soothing gesture. “I was being prescribed Prozac, not Paxil. But no, I’m off everything now.” Mrs. DiMarco turns to me. “And what about you, Garen? Are you on any medication at this time?” “No,” I say curtly. I don’t tell her that Doc considered putting me on mood stabilizers in the earlier stages of my treatment; it doesn’t seem like it’s anyone else’s business, especially since we eventually agreed that I could learn to curb my impulsive, aggressive, self-destructive tendencies without them, and that making me dependent on any drug would be the worst idea. Mrs. DiMarco earns a little bit more of my respect when she accepts my answer and turns to Joss with no change of expression. “What about you, Josslyn? Are you currently taking any medication?” “Um, no?” Joss says, eyes wide. “Are you seeing a therapist?” “I don’t need to be!” she says in a tone hysterical enough to suggest she’s wrong. “Look, I’m not crazy, and I’m not unstable. I just hate these two people.” Mrs. DiMarco crosses her arms. “Well, regardless of your personal feelings for either of these boys, you need to change your behavior immediately. This school does not condone bullying in any form, and now that we’ve been made aware of the situation between the three of you, I will be monitoring you closely. If you continue to act the way you have been acting, I’ll be forced to take action.” Joss scoffs. “You can’t force me to like somebody.” “No, I can’t. But I can recommend that you be suspended for tormenting other students, and if it continues, I can request your expulsion,” Mrs. DiMarco says simply. Oh man, she’s just getting cooler and cooler the longer this conversation continues. “For the record, she’s probably serious,” I say quietly. “It is way easier to get kicked out of this place than I thought it would be. Just, you know, speaking from experience.” “Perhaps your experiences should have been more focused on attending your classes,” Mrs. DiMarco points out. She pauses, scribbles something on a slip of paper, and passes it to me. “In fact, I think it would be a good idea for you and Ms. Pryce to continue on to class right now. Consider this the final warning for both of you.” Joss snatches her late slip and bolts without another word. I take my slip and stand, but don’t leave. “What about Travis?” “Travis needs to remain behind for a little while longer,” Mrs. DiMarco says. “We called this meeting because some serious concerns had been raised. Now that we know that the issues regarding you have been resolved, you’re free to leave.” “What about Travis?” I repeat stubbornly. He looks up at me, gives me an absolutely meaningless smile, and says, “I think it’s pretty obvious that my issues are anything but resolved.” I can feel the muscles at my jawline twitching with the effort it takes to keep myself from snarling something that’ll get me into trouble. I don’t even know what’s going on, or what they’ll do with him now. All I know is that last year, Ben was constantly terrified of a teacher or counselor finding out what he was doing to himself. That must mean they can do something, right? Maybe not kick him out, but certainly tell his mom. Fuck. His mom. She still doesn’t speak to him, and now this delightful bit of information is going to be thrown into the mix, like that’ll do anything to help the state of his mental health. It’s not fair. It’s not right. Not giving a shit about the audience, I stroke a palm over the back of his head, curving my hand just enough to pull him close so that I can press a kiss to his temple and murmur, “You’ll come find me if you need me, right?” He nods. The urge to tell him that I love him is almost choking me, but now’s really not the time. I compromise with another kiss to his skin, then turn to the door. “One last thing, Garen,” Ms. Markland says after me. I pause, rotate on my heels, blink at her. “The play. You made the commitment to participate, and I’d hate to have to cancel the entire production because you’re having personal problems with another cast member. Will you agree to go on in your role, provided I ensure that you don’t have to interact with Josslyn unless you’re on stage?” I want to say no. I want to bargain, to tell her I’ll only do it if they let Travis walk out of here with me right now. But I’m not in a position to be making deals, so instead, I find myself nodding stiffly, turning back around, and walking out of the office. Concentrating in any of my classes is nearly impossible, especially when third period rolls around and Travis isn’t in trial law. Mr. Esteves shoots me a questioning glance, but wisely chooses not to ask when my only response is stare back at him, stone-faced. It isn’t until halfway through my film and lit class that my phone finally buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, not bothering to hide it from Ms. Markland, who frowns at me, but makes no comment, presumably because she realizes who the text is from. His tiredness is obvious even through text. Silver lining: my mom is finally talking to me again. Rest of the cloud: she says that I can either go back on antidepressants or go back to the institution for another month-long “rest.” Apparently the “choice” is mine. But it has to be one or the other.where are you right now? I text back. i'll come find you. whatever you need.Sitting outside Dr. Baker’s office, he replies. LHS won’t let me come back to class until I have a letter from a licensed shrink saying that I’m not a danger to myself or other students. He agreed to squeeze me in for an appointment during his usual lunch hour. I’m going to go back on the meds. I can’t go back to the hospital. you hated being on the meds, t, I send. you said they made you feel like you were dead inside. I can picture the shrug I’m sure he intends to go along with his next message. I’m not sure that really matters to anyone, as long as I keep smiling.79 days sober

True to her usual “when it rains, I will make it pour hard enough to drown everyone in this county” method, Evelyn makes up for three months’ of silence by becoming the most overbearing mother on the planet. On Tuesday, Travis storms up to me in the hall, ranting about how his mom forced him to take his new batch of pills in front of her that morning, then demanded that he open his mouth and lift his tongue so she could be sure he’d really swallowed them. On Wednesday evening, he texts me to tell me that she has somehow managed to confiscate all of the keys to the Subaru that’s got Travis’ name on the title, not hers. I’m not sure how long they argue over that, but eventually, he must just get tired of the conversation, because he tells me that she’s getting back into the habit of driving him to work and school so that he can never go anywhere without her permission. Or without just calling me and having me instantly scramble out to my Ferrari to come get him. By the time I pull up in front of their house to pick Travis up on my way to the high school for the opening night of Grease, their arguing has reached a level audible from the fucking driveway. I remain in the safety of my car, staring down at the steering wheel and trying to pretend that I can’t hear the very distinct sound of two people screaming at each other from inside the house. I pull out my phone and send Travis a text reading, outside now. ready to go? When five minutes have passed and he still hasn’t replied, I grit my teeth and get out of the car. The last thing I need is to get myself involved in this, but it’s Travis—I’m already involved. My first jab of the doorbell goes ignored, even though I’m sure they can hear it. Based on the volume of snarling on the other side of the door, they’re standing right in the living room. I ring the bell again. Nothing. Again. When I’m ignored once more, I flip through the keys on my keyring until I find the one that’s supposed to open the front door to the house. I’m more than a little surprised to discover that it still fits—I’d kind of expected Ev to change the locks the second Dad and I moved out. But the lock clicks, the door swings open, and then I’m standing there in the entryway, blinking at the pair of them. It takes them a minute to even notice that I’m there, but the second they do, there is dead silence. Then, Evelyn plants her hands on her waist and demands, “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” I raise my keys and give them a little jingle. “Still my dad’s house, still have a key. Trav, you alright?” “He’s fine,” Evelyn snaps. “I’m not,” Travis says, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch and herding me back out onto the porch. “We need to head out now. You need to get into costume, and I need to meet with the crew.” “We are not done talking, Travis. You can be late. I’m sure the others will be fine without you,” Evelyn says. Travis throws his hands up and says, “Actually, they won’t be. I’m the fucking stage manager, Mom. You’d know this, if you bothered to listen to anything I have to say about this production. Hell, maybe you would’ve even bothered to buy tickets. But no, you weren’t interested.” “Travis Daniel McCall, if you leave this house right now, don’t—” “—even think about coming back,” Travis finishes, waving her off as he backs out of the house. “I know, Mom, I get it. I love you, too.” The door closes on whatever Evelyn’s response is. For a moment, Travis and I just stand there, staring at each other. Eventually, I swallow and say, “Dude, did she seriously just kick you out of the house?” He laughs. “That’s her new way of saying ‘goodbye.’ She says it every time I leave the house these days. Until she actually changes the locks while I’m out, I’ll just keep assuming she doesn’t mean it. God, I can’t fucking wait until I get to move out. Only—” He takes a deep breath, holds it, slowly lets it out as he heads for the Testarossa. “Whatever. I don’t wanna talk about it. And we’re about to be late.” We already kind of are, but I’m not about to point that out. I let him scowl silently out the window for the entire drive to school. He’s been all over the place for the last two days as his body relearns how to deal with being on meds; he gets headaches pretty much all the time, and his fuse is a lot shorter, and he sometimes zones out, staring blankly at me until I give up on talking and have to kiss a smile back onto his face. It’s the tactic I use now, crowding him into a corner at the end of the hall behind the auditorium and pressing my body against his until he laughs into my mouth and says, “You need to get ready. I’ve seen how long it takes the hair and makeup crew to finish with you.” “I hate hair and makeup,” I whine. It’s true—all the dudes in the cast have to have their hair slicked back into a fifties-style pompadour. It doesn’t look that bad on John or Gabe, but their hair isn’t as much of a thing as mine is. I don’t look like myself if my hair isn’t spiked. Travis isn’t having any of it, though. He pushes me towards the classroom where the girls in charge of hair and makeup are setting up camp, then wanders off to go do whatever boring crew stuff he’s got to do. I don’t say anything when I walk into the room. Riley and Annabelle are the only members of the club I’m still talking to, and neither of them are here, so I just throw myself into a chair near the back and start texting people while one of the girls comes over to carefully sculpt my hair.how excited are you to come watch me be awesome tonight? I send to Jamie. When he doesn’t immediately reply, I scowl and forward the text in separate messages to Ben and Alex as well. The only response I get is from Alex, who sends back, so thrilled i keep pissing myself, gonna b awkward 4 whoever has 2 sit next 2 me. ben says not 2 text him while hes driving.tell him not to drive while i’m texting him, I reply. speaking of ‘whoever has to sit next to you,’ left your tickets at the door, all four are in the same envelope. don’t let them lose jamie and rachael’s. His reply is predictable: can i ask them 2 tear them up on purpose?nope & you have to be nice to both of them. tonight (like all nights) is about ME, not YOU and the fact that you’re a dumb fucking cunt who took too long to figure out you wanted to date jamie. your punishment = you have to sit next to his new girlfriend. no i don’t. already bullied ben into letting me have the end seat & u know jamie wont make his gf sit next 2 a stranger. so ill have b/j as a buffer between me & her. What I really want to tell him is that forcing Ben and Jamie to sit next to each other is just going to leave both of them pissed off and possibly turned on, but it’s not like I can explain their entire dynamic without making all my favorite people hate each other. Instead, I text back, lol b/j. whatever, don’t be a dick to my bff. dont b the kind of loser who says ‘bff.’ A new text arrives from a number I don’t recognize--Hi, Garen, this is Rachael. James asked me to text you because he’s driving right now. We’re both looking forward to the play tonight. He’ll text you when we get to the school :) I add her number to my contacts list and reply, noted. thanks for letting me know. He doesn’t text when he gets to school, though; he sneaks into my classroom fifteen minutes before curtain and declares, “Garen Anderson, you James Dean motherfucker. Look at you, in your little costume. I might have to fight McCall for the rights to take you home tonight.” “You fucking faggot, you got me flowers?” I say, raising my eyebrows at the bouquet in his hands. But Jamie has been in the room just long enough get distracted by the way Christine’s pencil skirt clings to her curves. He flashes her his brightest, most disarming smile and says, “They were for you, until I saw your fellow cast member over here. Now I’m pretty sure they’re for her. Hello there, sweetheart. You’re absolutely stunning.” “Th-Thank you,” she stutters, looking surprised but delighted by the attention. I wave my hand between them and say, “James, Christine. Christine, James. Give me those fucking flowers, you dickbag.” I snatch them out of his grasp and pin them protectively to my chest before he can give them away to one of my hot co-stars. “There’s a card in there somewhere,” he adds absently. “Blah blah, break a leg, you probably won’t fuck up too badly, whatever.” I pluck the miniature envelope out of the bouquet and flip it open, digging out the card. Despite his flippant mention of it, the tiny card is covered front and back with his neat script, sweet words preemptively praising my performance and telling me how much he loves me. As reserved as he can be, Jamie has a tendency to gush when it comes to me. I tuck the card in the back pocket of my costume—for luck—and plant a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.” He hums his acknowledgment without looking away from Christine. I nudge his ankle with the toe of one of my Chucks and say, “Where’s Rachael?” “Who’s Rachael?” Christine asks. “My girlfriend,” Jamie says. Christine frowns, and he shrugs, still grinning. “Sorry, I tend to get ahead of myself. And my relationship status doesn’t do anything to make you any less beautiful.” I clap him on the shoulder. “When that relationship status changes—which it probably will, soon, for obvious reasons—I’ll give her your number. Now get the fuck out of here, curtain’s going up soon. Tell the others I say hi.” That’s enough to finally snap him out of it. He turns to me, narrows his eyes, and says, “Rachael requested the aisle seat so that she wouldn’t cause a rift between me and my friends, and Alexander’s sitting in the other end seat, throwing a silent temper tantrum over having to be near me. So, thank you very fucking much for making it so that I’m stuck sitting next to the midget all night.” “You’re welcome!” I say brightly as I clamp my hands down on his shoulders and steer him towards the door. Two steps into the hallway, I lean closer and whisper, “And thank you very fucking much for totally bringing the awkwardness by sleeping with all of my friends.” “You slept with them all first!” he protests, but before I can say anything, he darts off down the hall to return to his seat. I roll my eyes and head for the door to the stage wings. The play itself goes off with a minimal amount of failure. A few of the chorus members fuck up some of their choreography, and there are one or two fumbled lines, a few flat notes during musical numbers. I manage to remember all my lines, and my version of “There Are Worse Things I Could Do” gets a solid two minutes of applause—the cheering and clapping continues even after I’ve left the stage and the curtains have closed for the set change. My only real mistake is a brief break from character. After we’ve finished the “Sandra Dee” number, a spot appears on the girls, gathered in front of the stage and peering up at us like they’re looking up at a bedroom window, calling for us to come out and go cruising with them. I act out the scene exactly as we’ve blocked it; I grin down at the girls, then back up into the corner of the stage to say, “I’m gonna go get my kicks while I’m still young enough to get ‘em,” as I… strip, basically. I’m supposed to swap my beater and sweatpants for a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers before I clamber off the edge of the stage like I’m climbing out a window. The problem is that the moment I’m standing on stage in front of a few hundred people in nothing but a pair of decently form-fitting, black boxer-briefs, there’s a sudden burst of cat-calls from the audience. For half a second, I think it’s just Jamie, Alex, and Ben, all being complete assholes, but then I realize that it’s actually dozens of people, all of whom seem to be women. And it’s so awkward, because my fucking mom and dad are sitting right there in the front row, looking really goddamn offended that people are objectifying their only child. That’s too much for me to handle, and I laugh so hard that Riley turns my mic off from the control booth so that I won’t ruin the entire scene while I quickly redress in the jeans and tee. Beyond that, the play is a success. I get more than my fair share of applause during the final bows, and once the curtain has been drawn at the end of the night, I’m riding the most intense buzz I’ve ever gotten from any activity not involving substance abuse or orgasms. Or, at least, it doesn’t involve orgasms yet. It takes me exactly thirty-three seconds to track down Travis backstage. He’s weaving his way through the rest of the club members with enough focus and determination to make me suspect that he’s looking for me, too. Sure enough, the moment his gaze lands on me, he grabs me by the front of my costume and walks me backwards—we’re moving fast and I’m practically tripping over my feet, but neither of us is really bothered by it—until we’re out of the hallway where everyone is gathering and in the smaller, empty hall that leads to the sophomore wing. “You were—” he says, pressing me up against a closed classroom door and kissing me hard on the mouth between words, “—so fucking good. Best part of the entire production. Your song, Garen—people in the audience were like, crying, it was insane. You were amazing.” “The set was perfect,” I say, reaching down to cup him through the front of his jeans. He’s half-hard already, and I love it, I love that I can affect him this much in such a short period of time. Love that he does the same thing to me. I let my mouth trail down the side of his neck as I continue, “Everything you did, everything you planned turned out exactly the way it should have. The set was amazing, the props were perfect, everything, that fucking jukebox, I still can’t believe you made that—” “Can you please go change out of your costume right the fuck now so that we can go back to your place and—” “What, you seriously think we’re going to make it all the way back to my place? Think again, dude, we’ll be lucky if we make it to the parking lot—” “This classroom works just fine for me,” he says, fumbling for the doorknob that’s digging into my ass right now, and yeah, I’m definitely not going to bother going all the way back into the other part of the school to change out of my costume before this happens. But then there is a very pointed throat-clearing and I hear Ben’s voice saying from a few feet away, “Everyone kind of guessed that this might be happening right now. I’m fairly certain that they chose me to be the one to find you guys because I’ve already seen both of you naked. But can you, you know, hold off for a little bit? Because Garen’s mom wants to congratulate you both on how well the show went.” “Wow, okay, I guess we’re done here,” I say, pushing Travis away from my body so that I can stare down at my crotch. It’s actually kind of shocking how quickly I’ve gone soft. “Thanks for talking about my mom while I’ve got—or, while I had a boner, dude. I really appreciate that.” “Here to help,” Ben says, bowing. He pauses, cocks his head to the side, and asks, “Hmm. Guess Travis isn’t as disgusted by that topic as you are, though.” “That’s because Travis isn’t actually a blood relative, so he’s allowed to acknowledge that Marian and Bill are possibly the hottest parents ever,” Jamie announces, rounding the corner with the worst conversation contribution ever. “It’s no wonder that Garen turned out so gorgeous, when he comes from such fine stock.” I still haven’t looked away from my own crotch. “This is—I mean, that’s almost impressive. I’ve literally never been so turned off so quickly in my life. I didn’t even know that was biologically possible.” Finally, I blink around at my friends and add, “Alright, so, I guess I’ll get changed and find my parents, since I’m obviously not going to be using my dick anytime soon.” “That’s the spirit,” Alex says cheerfully as he joins the group, trailed by the blond girl I vaguely recall meeting at Jamie’s apartment a few months ago. They seem to be trying to ignore each other, even more so when Jamie slips an arm around Rachael’s waist and introduces her to Travis. Alex clears his throat and says, “Once you’ve accepted all your congratulations or whatever, you guys should come out with us. We were all saying earlier that we could go to that diner on Main, get something to eat, fawn over you.” It sounds like this will end up being an incredibly awkward experience for everyone involved, but Travis—who doesn’t realize exactly how upset Jamie really was over Alex picking his imaginary possibility of a future with Ben over the real chance at a relationship with Jamie, or that Jamie and Ben are both pointedly trying not to acknowledge that Ben recently hatefucked Jamie into the floor of his apartment, or the creep factor of how I only met Rachael in passing when I was hurrying her out of her boyfriend’s apartment so that I could whine about how in love Travis and I were-slash-are and nail Jamie to forget about it—just smiles brightly and says, “Yeah, that sounds great.” Which is how, half an hour later, I find myself back in my regular clothes, scrubbing stage makeup off my face with the sleeve of my jacket, and wandering from my car to the door of the Lakewood Diner as Jamie slings an arm around my shoulders and mutters into my ear, “I’ve slept with four of the five people I’m about to sit down with. Think we can find a seating arrangement that won’t leave me wedged between my girlfriend and a gentleman I’ve recently had awkward sexual congress with?” I plant a kiss on his cheek and say, “I’m working with the same percentage, and if I wasn’t afraid of pussy, I probably would’ve found a way to nail your girlfriend, too. It’s fine. We’ll shove you into a window seat and stick Rachael between the two of us. Minimal awkwardness, as long as you don’t look anyone in the eye across the table.” The ‘minimal awkwardness’ part is almost definitely a lie; I have no idea what Alex and Ben talked about on their way over here, but they’re both so on-edge in anticipation of this uncomfortable meal that they’ve dissolved into an argument about something stupid. Travis trails after them, making polite conversation with Rachael, who keeps shooting amused but vaguely judgmental looks over at Alex, like she’s trying to figure out what the hell almost made Jamie pick him over her. All in all, it’s not the best start to a night. “Table for six?” the exhausted-looking waitress says, snatching up a handful of laminated menus. “Yes, please,” I say. Travis, Rachael, and I all smile widely at her, like that’ll make up for the fact that Al and Ben still haven’t stopped sniping at each other. She blinks at us, so clearly, it makes up for fuck-all. She leads us to a booth in the back corner, away from the few other customers. Before we can even sit, Rachael excuses herself to run to the ladies’ room—probably to crack a cyanide capsule so she doesn’t have to sit through this meal. The moment she’s gone, I turn to Jamie, about to suggest that he take the window seat as planned, but the bickering must be getting to him, because he turns and says, in the sharpest voice I’ve heard from him in recent memory, “Both of you, shut the fuck up and sit down. Now.” Almost before the final word of instruction is spoken, Ben’s mouth is shut, and his ass is on the bench. It’s the most stunning display of instantaneous obedience I’ve ever seen in my life. Jamie stares at him. I stare at him. Travis stares at him. Hell, Ben seems like he kind of wants to stare at himself. Instead, he just ducks his head, presses himself further into the booth, up against the wall, and listens—or maybe pretends to listen—to Alex’s uninterrupted muttering. There’s a beat of hesitation, and then, despite the request he made when we were walking into the building not two minutes ago, Jamie steps forward and sinks onto the bench next to Ben. It’s really fortunate that Rachael’s in the restroom and Alex is still plowing ahead with his attempts to win whatever debate he’d been having, because there is nothing at all subtle about the way Jamie reaches up and brushes Ben’s hair away from his ear so that he can whisper something to him. There is a breath-long flash of something across Ben’s face—he looks like he might be pleased with himself, or with Jamie. But then, like he’s remembering who or where he is, his expression morphs into a scowl, and he hunches closer to the wall and yanks the hood of his sweatshirt up so that his ears are covered. Alex must take Ben’s silence as surrender, because he looks satisfied as he flops down onto the bench to sit across from his roommate. I take the seat next to him and pull Travis down next to me, because I don’t see any point in forcing Rachael to sit next to anyone other than her boyfriend when she gets back. And because I get to peruse my menu with one hand on Travis’ knee, and he shoots me these adorably flustered looks every time I tighten my grip. Rachael returns, followed shortly by the waitress, and we all place our orders. We manage to make some progress with awkward small talk and discussion of tonight’s play, but by the time our food is actually being served, the conversation is lagging. I have no choice but the throw myself on the sword and say, “I have something I need to talk to you guys about.” Rachael tugs on the sleeve of my jacket. “If this is a personal thing, I can wait outside for a minute. Or in the car. I don’t want to intrude.” She’s sweeter than most of Jamie’s girlfriends have been over the years; it’s a nice change. I smile politely and say, “Totally unnecessary. I’m not going to say anything weird, it’s just—” I pause, then turn my attention to my friends. They’re all waiting in utter silence, like they think I’m about to tell them I’ve got cancer. Or that I’m going back to rehab. Or… something else that’s similar to any of the other creepy things I’ve revealed over the past year. It makes me want to smile, but instead, I shrug my shoulders and say, “I’m moving back to New York after this semester ends.” Ben’s eyebrows shoot up. Jamie seems like he’s wavering between happiness at the idea of me being closer to him, and annoyance at the fact that I’ve clearly decided to ignore his advice about not going back to Patton. Travis is still and silent, and when I meet his eyes, his gaze drops to the tabletop. He’s frowning, but not like he’s pissed. More like he’s thinking. Still, it’s Alex who finally nudges my boot under the table and says, “What about school?” “Transferring,” I say, pausing just to take a sip of my coffee, “back to Patton. My dad spoke to the headmaster and made me the offer a few weeks ago, after that fight during lunch. I’d been planning to refuse, but after what school’s been like since then… I can’t be at LHS for another semester. I can’t afford the risk of getting another concussion, I can’t afford another ten grand in damage to the Testarossa, I can’t afford to let any more of my personal history get spread around like it’s nothing.” Jamie reaches across the table and rubs his knuckles against the back of my hand until I flip it over so that he can press our palms together. “Is school really that unbearable for you?” “Yes,” Travis answers for me. He still doesn’t look up from the table. “You guys have no idea how they treat him. It’s fucking disgusting. Everyone is constantly talking shit about him, even people who’ve never spoken to him. He gets pushed into lockers and tripped any time he tries to walk across the cafeteria. People have this game of trying to see if they can shove him hard enough to spill his morning coffee on him—and at the Grind, we serve coffee at a hundred and sixty degrees. That’s hot enough to give somebody third degree burns. It’s not funny, not at all, but everybody thinks it is.” “Okay, so, clearly LHS is a shitty place for G to go to school. But… you’ve told us all what life was like when you were at Patton last time,” Ben says slowly. “I’m not sure that living in a dorm with a bunch of people who are drinking and using is a good idea. You’d be putting yourself around exactly the sort of thing you should be avoiding. And you’d be alone.” Jamie swirls the tip of his spoon through his tea and says, “I voiced the same concern when he first told me about this the last time I came here. He has yet to give me a satisfactory response to—” “Day student,” I interrupt. The progress of the spoon pauses, and I grin. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Wanna stop running your mouth and let me finish?” He shoots me a wry smile and says, “Depends on whether or not you’re going to say anything worth listening to.” “Everything I say is worth listening to,” I grumble, but I still accept the apologetic kiss he presses to the back of my hand. To the rest of the group, I clarify, “Patton Military is a boarding school, but they have some day students who live off-campus and commute. Kind of like you two—” I gesture to Ben and Alex, “—do for college. Dad and I both agreed with you, you nosy little shits, about it being a bad idea for me to live in the dorms, so we’ve talked it out. He says I could get an apartment off-campus so that I don’t, you know, have to put up with being around a lot of partying.” Ben is unimpressed by this news. “You’d still be alone, though. When you’re here and you have a bad night, you usually come stay over at our place, or call Travis to hang out. If you have a bad night there, you’ll be completely on your own. It’s not like you can make an hour drive into the city to see James every time you don’t feel fine.” “What if he wasn’t alone, though?” Travis says, looking up from his plate. When his words are met with silence, he amends, “What if he found a roommate to live with? You know, someone who understands, who’d be there for him on the nights that are hard to handle.” Jamie’s face splits into a blinding smile. “I would be delighted to handle Garen on hard nights. What do you say, sweetheart? Wanna strike up a sequel to ‘Garen and Jamie’s Excellent Roommate Adventure’?” “You have an apartment already,” I point out. He reaches across the table with both hands to tangle his fingers with mine. “So? I’ll break my lease. We can get a place halfway between your school and mine; we’d both have a half-hour commute for classes. We’ve already lived together, we know we get along well as roommates. Let’s shack up.” “How does your girlfriend feel about that?” Alex mutters, and Jamie shoots him a warning look. Rachael, however, smiles brightly and leans around Jamie to say, “I’m fine with it. First of all, I think it’s great that James wants to be there for his best friend. They’re both really good men.” Jamie’s eyes flicker back to me, and he grins when I flash him a thumbs up and mouth, we’re both good men. Rachael continues, “Second of all, it’s not like I think I’m going to be living with James anytime soon. We only just started dating, and we’re still keeping things pretty casual. I mean, I don’t even care if he still sleeps with boys.” “You don’t?” Alex says doubtfully. Another glare from Jamie, another smile from Rachael, though this one is sharper. “If you’re wondering why I requested that James end things with you, you can ask me. I won’t lie,” she says. I bite down on my lip to hold back a smile; sometimes, it’s not hard to see why Jamie likes her. When Alex hitches his chin at her—presumably his non-verbal way of asking her to tell him the truth—she says, “I had no problem with him having sex with you. Just like I had no problem with him having sex with Garen, or—I’m sorry, I don’t actually know if he has had sex with Travis or Ben.” Travis snorts, but Ben doesn’t move a muscle. His stillness doesn’t escape Rachael’s attention. I watch her blink at him, then shoot Jamie a thoroughly amused glance that he pretends not to see. Wow, my life would’ve been so much easier if Travis’ last girlfriend had been this awesome. “Alex, my point is that James having sex with men doesn’t bother me at all. What would bother me is him being in a relationship with someone else. I don’t want to have a boyfriend who has a boyfriend, and I think that’s a more than reasonable boundary to put on a relationship. If I honestly believed that you two were just friends who happened to sleep together, I wouldn’t have asked him to end things with you. And hey, if I was wrong and neither of you has genuine feelings for the other, then by all means, tell me, and you can go back to having sex. Otherwise, my request stands.” “I feel like I should start a slow clap,” I whisper across the table. “That’s how I feel almost every time she talks,” Jamie whispers back, and Rachael rewards him with a kiss to the cheek. “I don’t get your relationship,” Alex mutters. Ben snorts. “That’s what you said to me when Garen and I were together.” “And when Ben and I were together,” Travis adds. “Kinda goes without saying that nobody really got my relationship with my kid brother over here,” I say, ruffling Travis’ hair. “But yeah, Al, you’ve definitely given me the whole ‘I don’t get your relationship’ thing.” “Okay, so maybe I just don’t get relationships in general,” Alex snaps. Ben shrugs. “That’s not terribly surprising, considering you’ve never been in love.” “Yes, I have,” Alex says, and Jamie flinches. Travis’ hand drops off the table and onto my knee, giving it a rough squeeze. I cover his hand with mine and squeeze back. Jesus, I always knew Al would snap and tell Ben he loved him, but I never thought I’d be there for it. This is awkward on a whole host of levels, particularly because Ben is just blinking at him. Alex pokes at his eggs with the tines of his fork and says, without looking up, “Just because I haven’t bothered to say anything doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. That I haven’t felt it for… a while now, I guess.” “Oh,” Ben says blankly. Alex shrugs. I’m pretty sure Travis’ fingers are going to leave bruises on my leg if I don’t do something to ease the tension soon. I clear my throat and lean forward to say to Rachael, “Jamie told me you’re in the poli-sci department with him. What are you planning to do after graduation?” Alex snorts, clearly a little amused at my horrible attempts to change the subject. Ben is still just staring across the table at his best friend. After nearly a minute of Rachael’s chattering, his eyes flicker down to the table, then to Jamie’s face. I glance over—Jamie is staring back, one eyebrow ever so slightly quirked. It looks like a challenge, and if it is, Ben totally loses, because he mutters to him, just loud enough for me to hear, “Can you please let me out of the booth?” “You alright?” I say. “Can you please let me out of the booth?” he repeats, curling his hand into a fist and pressing it hard against Jamie’s ribs until he finally nudges Rachael to her feet and slips out after her. Ben scoots out of the booth, and I reach around Travis’ shoulders to make a grab for his arm, but he shakes me off, forces a smile and says, “Excuse me. I’ll just—I’ll be right back.” He turns and strides out of the diner. The moment the door has swung shut behind him, Jamie turns to Alex and says, “Personally, I think that could have gone a lot worse. He could have cried or vomited or tried to kill himself.” He pauses, frowns, amends, “Could’ve done that in front of you, rather. Not too sure what he’s doing outside right now.” “Bite me, Jamie,” Alex sighs. “Have done. Funny how ending that still didn’t make the midget return your affections,” Jamie says, frown melting into one of his disarming smiles. I press my hand to Travis’ shoulder until he realizes that I’m trying to get him to let me up. Once he moves, I stand, push him back into his seat, and order, “Keep them from killing each other—if Jamie doesn’t shut up soon, you have my permission to knee him under the table. I’m going to go talk to Ben.” I bolt for the door, skidding a little on the front steps, still dusted with snow. Ben is around the back of the building, sitting on the trunk of my car and staring down at his Chucks. Usually I’d bitch at him for that—make a comment about how his hundred-and-fifteen-pound body better not dent my car, or how I’ll kick his ass if his studded belt scratches my paintjob—but he doesn’t blink once in the entire time it takes me to cross the mostly-empty lot. He doesn’t even look up until I’m standing directly in front of him, nudging his knees apart so that I can crowd in close. “I’m such an asshole,” he says softly. “I had no idea. I swear, if I’d known he felt like that, I never would have—” He breaks off, lets out a frustrated sigh, scrubs his hands over his face. “God, I’m the worst fucking person on the planet.” “You’re not,” I say, curling an arm around his shoulders and drawing him in. “Dude, you can’t beat yourself up for not knowing something that he didn’t want you to know.” “Why the hell wouldn’t he want me to know that?” he demands, voice slightly muffled by my jacket. I shrug. “Maybe he was afraid it’d change everything.” He jerks his head back and says, “Of course it would have changed everything. But that’s good, because if he’d told me—fuck, G, if I’d known he felt like that, you have to believe me, I never would have slept with him.” I burst out laughing; I can’t help it. It’s a hysterical, uncontrollable reaction, and he shoots me the world’s most offended look, which only makes it harder for me to get my shit together. It’s a solid two minutes before I’m able to make myself say, “Holy shit. When the fuck did you sleep with Alex?” “Alex?” Ben says, squinting at me. “What are you—I’m talking about James.” “James,” I echo. “Yeah, James. Your best friend, the guy I fucked, the guy Alex was dating, the guy I just found out he was in love with—” “No,” I interrupt, shaking my head sharply from side to side. “No, you can’t possibly be this fucking oblivious. I refuse to believe this conversation is happening. I refuse to accept the idea that Alex could finally tell you he’s in love with you, which all of us have known for months now, including Jamie, and then you could actually be retarded enough to think that he was confessing his love for Jamie. Nope. This conversation isn’t happening, I’m fucking walking away from you right now, alright? I’m—” “Garen,” Ben chokes out, grabbing my forearms when I attempt to step back. He looks like I just cracked him over the head with a sledgehammer. And—oh, shit. Holymotherfuckingcocksuckingshitonastick. He really still hadn’t figured it out—not until about five seconds ago, when I told him, when I fucked everything up, when I told the biggest secret Alex has ever had. What I should be doing right now is clamping my mouth shut on the words that are threatening to spill out, but it’s not working. Before I can figure out how to make this situation better, I’m squeezing my eyes shut and blurting out, “Alex has been totally in love with you since you guys were like, fifteen years old, and that’s why he used to like making out with you at parties in high school, and I figured it out right after I first met you guys, because he looks at you like you’re everything to him, and I think Travis figured it out while you and he were still dating, but then I kind of outed Alex to all our friends right after you kissed him and left that party the night after I came back to Lakewood, and Travis and I accidentally told Jamie after I got out of the hospital, before either of us knew that he and Alex were banging, and I maybe told Stohler, too, when I was making that napkin chart you saw in her room that time, and that’s why he wouldn’t agree to date Jamie, because he was still holding onto this kind of creepy and obsessive love for you, because apparently four years of pining just doesn’t seem like enough, and I’m pretty sure that’s why Jamie hates you.” I heave a sigh. “I can’t believe I got that all out in one breath. I feel so much better.” “I don’t!” Ben practically shrieks. “Oh my god. Alex is in love with me?” “How is that still even remotely in question after everything I just said?” I yell back, even though we’re still only a foot apart. I take another deep breath, clear my throat, and say, in a much quieter voice, “Yes, Alex is in love with you. He’s also your best friend, so no matter how you feel about him in return, you need to be careful what you say to him when you guys speak again, because this is not worth ruining your friendship over, alright?” It always feels so cosmically fucked when I have to be the voice of reason; I’m pretty sure I’m unqualified for the position. Ben’s eyes are dazed, unfocused. “What am I supposed to do now?” “Nothing,” says the only voice that could possibly make this situation more awkward, from maybe twenty feet behind me. I wait in silence and stillness as Jamie’s wingtips click closer across the asphalt. He finally appears in the corner of my vision, letting his cigarette dangle out of his mouth for the few seconds it takes him to strip off his peacoat and drape it around Ben’s shoulders; I had noticed neither that it was starting to snow again, nor that he was shivering in his hooded sweatshirt. Jamie taps the ash off the end of his smoke and continues, “I always assumed you returned his affections. But if you don’t, then don’t do anything. Don’t make him talk about it, don’t try to convince him that he doesn’t feel it, and don’t enter into a relationship with him out of pity. Ignore it, and his feelings will fade. That’s what Garen and I did back when I had a pathetic little crush on him in high school.” “Ignore it,” Ben echoes, doubtfully. “Alex is a grown man. He doesn’t need you to coddle him, the way you coddle everyone else. It’s stupid and insulting,” Jamie says. He tugs me out of Ben’s reach, gives me a random hug, and say, “G, go back inside. It’s obvious the midget needs some tough love right now, and neither of us is going to give that to him. You’re all love, no toughness, and I’m tough, with absolutely no love for him. I don’t even have like for him. But you babying him right now isn’t going to make this situation easier on anyone, so go back inside, talk to Alex, grope Travis under the table some more, and keep my girlfriend amused, since this situation is all your fault in the first place.” I throw my hands up. “How is this my fault?” Jamie starts ticking things off on his fingers. “You asked me to come to your play, you asked my ex-not-boyfriend to come on the same night, you asked your ex-not-boyfriend—who my ex-not-boyfriend is in love with and who I had sex with a few weeks ago—to come on the same night as well, you’re the reason the midget decided to stay in-state instead of going to music school in New York, you—” “Rude, rude, rude,” I snap, turning around and stomping back in the direction of the diner. “You are rude, and you are blaming me, and I hate you. I’m going to go spread lies about you to your girlfriend so that she breaks up with you and you have to sit in awkward silence on the whole drive back to the city. I’m going to tell her that you have chlamydia, and that you’ve got a clown fetish, and that you once ate a live rat that you found on the subway. Goodbye, enjoy your secret, special heart-to-heart, ladies.” The last thing I hear before I disappear around the side of the building is Ben saying flatly, “You don’t have chlamydia, right? Because if you do, you really should have let me take ten seconds to go grab a condom before we fucked.” The moment I’m back inside the diner, Alex shoots me an anxious glance and says, “So? What’d he say?” “He said ‘My name is Ben McCutcheon, and I’ve got fucking Down syndrome.’ Or, at least, that’s what he should have said,” I say, sinking onto the bench next to Rachael, who has scooted over to the window to take Ben’s seat. “That tiny idiot thought you were talking about Jamie. Not him.” Alex blinks, like the thought of anybody being in love with Jamie is ridiculous. It makes me want to punch him in the face, because who wouldn’t fall for Jamie? I mean, sure, I didn’t, but maybe I could’ve, if Dave hadn’t fucked me up so badly, if I hadn’t been fourteen when we started sharing the dorm room, if I’d been a little older and more stable and more mature. Jamie’s the most beautiful man on the planet, sharp and witty and fiercely protective, and if Alex had just been a little less blind, none of this would be happening right now. “But he, um.” Alex scratches the back of his neck. “He knows now? He finally figured it out, or you told him, or whatever? He knows I was talking about him?” I nod and cover Travis’ hand with mine again. “Yeah. He knows now.” “Is James still out there with him?” Rachael asks, brow creasing. “Well, I think he mostly just wanted a cigarette,” I admit. “But they’re talking, I think. It’s—I wouldn’t have left them alone together if I thought they were going to tear each other to pieces. They just have a lot of shit to work out.” It must be a truer statement than I realized, because ten minutes later, they’re still outside talking, and we’re all left making awkward, forced conversation. Fifteen minutes later, they’re still talking. Twenty minutes later, they’re still talking. At twenty-five minutes, Alex gestures for Travis to let him out of the booth and mutters, “This is ridiculous. I’m going to go talk to them both.” And then it hits me—oh god. They’re probably not really talking. They’re probably talking, by which I mean touching each other, by which I mean shit, Alex cannot go outside right now. I fling myself back out of the booth and say, maybe a little too frantically, “Nope, I’ve got it. It’s cool, I’ve totally got it. I’m just going to uh, to call them, and also go outside, and yeah.” I scurry towards the door, dialing Jamie’s cell phone number as I go. He picks up just as I’m stepping outside. “What do you want, Anderson?” “Please tell me he’s not in you right now,” I hiss. “He’s not,” is the clipped response, though his breathing is a little labored. “Alright, awesome. Please tell me you’re not in him right now,” I say. Dead fucking silence. I groan. “Really? He just found out his live-in best friend is in love with him, and now you’re balls-deep in the kid? He’s supposed to be the one with morals.” “I talked him out of those.” “He’s supposed to keep it in his pants!” “I talked him out of those, too.” “I thought you guys both promised me that this wasn’t going to happen again, so why are you fucking? Wait, where are you fucking? It’s snowing, I’m freezing my balls off.” The silence continues. I stumble to a halt at the corner of the building, because they’re not standing where I left them. Slowly, I slip a hand into the pocket of my jacket. My keys are missing. I stomp my foot and snarl, “James Jackson Goldwyn, if you stole my keys during that little hug of yours—if you are fucking him in my car right now, this friendship is over, I swear to god.” “Completely worth it,” he breathes, “Oh Lord, why didn’t you tell me he’s this tight? If I’d had any idea he’d feel like this, I would’ve—” “End the call, or I’ll break your phone,” I hear Ben snap. “Is there a reason you called, G? Don’t get me wrong, hearing your voice is a lot sexier than hearing this little bitch barking orders at me--harder, faster, scratch me, choke me,” Jamie drops his own accent to mimic Ben’s voice. “Only, it’s a little difficult to jack him off, and pull his hair, and hold a cell phone all at once.” I cover my face with my palm and say, “Just… finish up, would you? I had to stop Alex from coming out here to check on you, everyone’s getting suspicious, and—dude, you know your girlfriend wouldn’t even care what you’re doing right now, which means she is the raddest fucking chick in the world, right?” “I’m aware,” Jamie says. “I’m hanging up now, we’ll be done soon.” “If Travis asks me why the car smells like sex on the way back to town, I’m telling him the truth,” I warn, but the call is already going dead, and—oh, wow. Somebody’s sure as hell putting his back into it and trying to wrap things up in there, because I can see the car rocking even from here. I roll my eyes and head back for the door of the dinner, muttering, “All I want for Hanukkah is some less slutty friends.” The moment I’ve flopped down into my seat again, Alex asks, “Are they arguing?” “Of course,” I say, smiling blandly. “But it’s the normal kind of arguing, not a fist-fight kind. They said they’ll be back in a few minutes.” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I extract it to find that I have a new text from… Rachael. I glance at her, but she’s gazing innocently down at her phone, still typing. I open the text. So, which car is being defiled, yours, mine, or Ben’s? I should probably double-check with Jamie to make sure that she’s not about to get pissed and cause a scene, but I’m sure my cover is already blown because of the grin slowly creeping onto my face. I type, mine. In it or on it? is her reply.you’re the perfect woman, I send. they’re in it. are you sure you don’t mind? i can text them & tell them to stop. I glance up in time to see her roll her eyes and give a tiny flick of her hand to wave off my worries. I swear, if I were straight, I’d totally steal this bitch from Jamie. She’s awesome. And she continues to be awesome when Jamie returns to the diner—a little worse for wear, with a missing necktie and slightly flushed cheeks—and she says, “Did you have fun?” He raises his eyebrows; she cocks her head to the side, grinning, and adds, “With your talk, that is. You know, work out your differences, kiss and make up, whatever.” He makes a face and says, “The midget and I aren’t really much for kissing.” She offers him a doubtful look, and he sneers at her before saying, “He’s waiting in his car, gave me a couple bucks to throw in for his food. Are we ready to head out?” Once we’ve all tossed down enough money to cover the bill, we file out of the diner and around the back. Ben’s car is running, and he’s sitting behind the wheel, window rolled down and elbow propped up on it. His head is resting on his hand, but his fingers are shaking. Well, alright then. If Jamie’s a good enough top to leave the guy shaking that much even after several minutes have passed, maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to refuse to bottom back when we were freshmen. I lope over to the car and lean in the window, like I’m saying goodbye, but what I really whisper is, “You two are filthy, insatiable whores. And I totally expect that from him by now, but it’s so new and exciting to see it from you. I’m proud of you.” “Shut up and get away from me,” Ben whispers back, shoving at my shoulder. When I lean back out of the car, Jamie and his girlfriend are right there. Jamie shoves me up against the door of the car—and totally into Ben’s personal space, that’s so awkward—and gives me a forceful but tight-lipped kiss on the mouth. He’s in a pissy mood, which pretty much always happens whenever he doesn’t get to cuddle with someone after sex. The demand for even more physical intimacy as and after he comes is the weirdest quirk of his, but I’m always down to be the big spoon, so I don’t usually have to put up with this. Hopefully Rachael will hold his hand on their drive back to New York, calm him down a little. When he finally releases me, he grumbles, “I’m glad I got to see you in that horrible show of yours. You were the best part of it, by far. Good luck with the rest of your performances.” “Thank you for coming,” I say, dragging him into a hug, mostly because I’m an asshole and I know that hugging me when I’m up against Ben’s car means that Jamie’s face is less than a foot away from Ben’s right now. I bet they’re making the world’s most uncomfortable eye contact. Eventually, the way he’s digging his fingers into my side becomes too annoying to ignore, so I let him go and finish, “Drive safely. Text me when you get home.” He nods, squeezes my hand one last time, and says over his shoulder as he walks away, “Love you, G.” “You, too,” I call after him. I turn my eyes to Rachael, who hasn’t moved. “Thank you for coming to my show tonight. I know it’s kinda lame to go see a high school play, but I appreciate it. And it was nice to get to know you better.” “Of course. I’m sure we’ll see more of each other, if you and Jamie are going to be living together in less than two months,” she says, smiling and opening up her arms to me. I’m expecting to be the only one who gets a hug, but the moment Rachael has released me, she leans into the window of the CRV, wraps an arm around Ben’s neck and draws him in. He looks stunned at first, then absolutely mortified when she breathes just loudly enough for him and me to hear, “Jamie’s a talented boy, isn’t he?” I choke on a laugh, but try to pretend it’s a cough. “I-I’m sorry,” Ben stammers out, but she just releases him, winks, and strides away after Jamie. Ben shoots me a panicked glance, but I wave him into silence as Alex slides oh-so-reluctantly into the passenger seat of the Honda. “Thank you both for coming tonight,” I say. “I’ll talk to you later.” I step back so that they can pull out of the space without running over my feet. A moment later, Travis steps up behind me and wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder as he says, “Those two are going to have the most uncomfortable drive home ever.” “You think so?” I say. I wonder if he’ll still feel that way in a few minutes, when he eventually realizes why my car reeks of sex or why his leather seat is sticky.